by Monica Burns
“There is always the possibility that you’re simply waiting for the opportunity to turn her over to your brethren.”
For a moment, he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Merda, the man knew he had Praetorian blood. The bastard had definitely probed his thoughts without permission. Did he think his rank and position gave him the right to violate a Sicari’s thoughts and probe deep beneath the surface?
“I am not a traitor to the Sicari.” Ramrod straight, he eyed the man with furious contempt.
“Nor was Maximus to the Praetorian Guard, and yet Octavian painted him a traitor.” The Sicari Lord studied him for a moment then gave him an abrupt nod. “We shall see.”
“Instead of talking history to me, we should be going after that Praetorian son of a bitch.”
“He’s more concerned with destroying me now than he is with finding Phaedra,” the man replied.
“Merda,” he snapped with disgust. “How do you know that?”
“Because he knows who I am.” The Sicari Lord bent his head, his mood somber, almost bleak. A moment later, the man sent him an intent look. “The vision you had, have you had them before?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who’s probed my thoughts already,” he growled.
“Your thoughts were easy to hear without probing.” The Sicari Lord sent him a harsh look that was a silent reprimand. “I repeat. Have you had these visions before?”
His internal debate wasn’t going his way at all. This was a Sicari Lord, and as a Sicari, he owed obedience to the man. On top of that, something about the man said he wasn’t the type of man who let rules stand in the way of him gaining information. Deep inside of him, he identified with the Sicari Lord. If the means justified it, he broke the rules, too. And the idea of this man probing his thoughts was far less appealing than sharing the fact that he’d been dreaming for some time. He released a noise of anger.
“Yes.”
“I’m certain you can expand on that.” Amusement in his voice, the man tucked his sword away under his cloak without looking away from Lysander.
“I’ve been dreaming about Maximus since I was a kid,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“That long.” The statement sounded more like the man was thinking out loud, and the way the Sicari Lord rubbed his chin only reinforced the notion that he was expecting something more from him. The man studied him intently. “I’m curious. Do I look familiar to you?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” He avoided a direct answer. This entire conversation was making him edgy.
“A straightforward one, I thought. So I shall ask again. Do I look familiar to you?”
“No.” Instinct made him throw up a mental block to ensure the Sicari Lord didn’t discover his lie. The man frowned, and again Lysander felt as though the man was disappointed in him.
“I see. And Phaedra? Has she mentioned any dreams?”
“Not to me, she hasn’t.” Growing more irritated by the minute, he glared at the man.
“But then you keep her at a distance, don’t you?” The Sicari Lord nodded as if suddenly having an epiphany. “In the days ahead, Condellaire, you must never question your
instincts. Don’t think. Act. It will save your life and that of the woman who is a part of your destiny.”
Deus, the man wasn’t just a Sicari Lord, he was crazy. He needed a shovel to dig his way out of the crap this guy was handing him. The man facing him chuckled softly.
“I’m certain my sanity seems in question, but I assure you I’m quite sane. Things will reveal themselves in time,” the Sicari Lord said. “In the meantime, Cornelia will take you back to the safe house. When you arrive, tell the Prima Consul that Marcus has found the boy. As for me, or my people, you are to say nothing. Secrecy is the greatest weapon I, and those who serve me, have against the Praetorians. Do I have your word?”
“What, you’re going to trust a half-breed’s word?” He sneered, still smarting at the way the Sicari Lord had questioned his loyalty to the Order.
“I have no choice.” The man sent him a look that said he expected a response.
“You have my word.”
“Bene. However, if I discover you’ve broken your word, I’ll hunt you down and slit your throat.” The words were simple, matter-of-fact, but a deadly note ran beneath them. It wasn’t a threat, merely a fact.
“Understood, Eminence.”
Lysander bowed his head, and when he straightened, the Sicari Lord had already vanished into the night, taking one of his bodyguards with him. The woman called Cornelia moved to stand at his side, pulling a small Mag light from her pocket in the black leather jacket she wore. She quickly examined the wound on his arm and shrugged.
“You’ll live. Come.” With a sharp gesture, she indicated he was to follow her.
Wearily, he slid his sword back into the scabbard on his back and hurried after her. In silence, they moved quickly down the alley and wound their way through several dark streets toward the more populated sections. As he followed the Sicari woman, it was impossible not to reflect on the events of the past hour. If he weren’t the Legatus, he’d most likely be whipped for doing something as stupid as going after the Praetorian without a partner. He grimaced. Actually, Atia was within her rights to order his punishment.
If it hadn’t been for the Sicari Lord’s arrival, the Prima Consul wouldn’t have had the opportunity to even make such a decision. Ahead of him, the Sicari fighter moved quickly, yet with a stealth that amazed him. It was obvious the woman had received special training. Like the Sicari Lord, the woman revealed nothing to his senses. His skills were extensive, but hers clearly surpassed his by a large margin. Particularly when he failed to use his head. He winced. A fine example he was setting for his team.
Something Atia would take great pleasure in pointing out.
They’d gone several blocks when she stopped in front of a sleek Italian sports car. Even though he was exhausted and in pain, he eyed the black vehicle with appreciation. It was a thing of beauty. He was learning Cornelia was a woman of few words as she nodded at him to get in. In less than a minute, they were in the compact vehicle with the engine revved up as the Sicari woman tooled the car through the dark streets. As they emerged from the quieter areas and encountered slightly heavier traffic, she darted the sports car in and out of the other vehicles with the skill of a stunt driver.
She didn’t ask for directions, and it was obvious she knew where she was going. Just as they’d done on foot through the dark alley-ways, they maintained their silence in the car. And even if he’d been in the mood for conversation, something told him Cornelia wouldn’t be interested in talking. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the car’s low headrest until the car’s rumbling became the soft purr of an idling engine.
“The safe house, Legatus.”
With a nod, he got out of the car, and the minute he’d closed the door, the woman threw the car into gear and drove off without a backward glance. Weary to the bone, he blew out a harsh breath then entered the safe house. Less than a minute later, he was past the security door locks and was standing in the foyer. Usually, the house was dimly lit this time of the morning, but the glare of lights made him grimace. Marco had raised the alarm. A rush of footsteps made him brace himself as the sound of excited voices echoed out of the narrow hallway leading into the kitchen. Everyone was awake. Marcus didn’t seem to understand that the words come looking for him weren’t quite the same thing as rousing the entire household. He’d talk to his Primus Pilus about that later. Hoping to avoid questions until he could talk to Atia alone, he quickly strode toward the staircase. He’d only climbed two steps when the Prima Consul appeared in the entryway followed by the rest of his team, including Phaedra. Too late. He averted his gaze from her and steeled himself for Atia’s inquisition.
“Where have you been? Marco says you wouldn’t tell him where you were going.” The Prima Consul’s tone wasn’t a question. It was an order tha
t said she’d only tolerate a straightforward answer. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before he turned to face her.
“I went looking for that Praetorian we discussed.”
When he’d sent Atia a text message after Phaedra’s assault, he’d made sure to let the Prima Consul know he was certain they were dealing with a Praetorian. Between his text message, and their short phone call afterward, the Prima Consul knew Phaedra’s assailant wasn’t just a telepath, but possessed telekinetic skills as well. And while she’d not given him a direct order not to hunt the bastard down, Atia had made it clear he was to avoid the man.
“Fotte,” Atia said with a sharp gasp of horror as she stared at him. “Have you lost your mind?”
He didn’t know what surprised him most, the language that was out of character for her, or the distinct fear echoing in the Prima Consul’s voice. But it was the way her face had drained of color that worried him the most. He ignored the rest of the team spilling out into the foyer and hurried to her side. Atia brushed off his solicitous hand, her gaze focusing on his arm and then his throat.
“You’re injured. Phaedra.” The Prima Consul’s voice rang out crisply.
It was a sharp command, and Phaedra, along with Cleo, pushed her way to the front of the small group gathered in the hall. Both women gasped when they saw him, but when Phaedra rushed toward him, it caught him off guard. He immediately retreated several feet, only to find his back pressed into the spindles of the staircase.
“Mea Deus, what happened to you?” Phaedra whispered as her hand lightly brushed across his throat.
Her touch was electric, but he didn’t want the pity he could hear in her voice. In a sharp move, he grabbed her wrist and jerked her hand away from his skin before releasing his grip on her. Even that touch had enough of a charge that it made him wish he hadn’t used up all his telekinetic ability just so he could push her away without touching her. Struggling to maintain his composure, he ignored Phaedra and looked at the Prima Consul.
“I have a message for you, Madame Consul. I was instructed to tell you that Marcus has found the boy, and he’ll do what he must to resolve the matter.”
Gut instinct had told him Atia would find the message unsettling, but the last thing he’d expected from the Prima Consul was for her to faint. Despite the way his body protested, he leaped forward and caught her before she hit the floor. The deep cut on his arm sent a shrieking message of protest through his shoulder as he lifted the older woman up into his arms.
Stunned by her mother’s reaction, Cleo took longer to respond than he did. Seconds later, pandemonium broke out in the entryway as everyone reacted to Atia’s collapse. More than half a dozen questions pelted him from all directions, and everyone was pushing forward, trying to offer assistance.
“Enough,” he roared. The noise stopped abruptly. “Campanella. Secure the house. The rest of you go back to bed. There’s nothing more to see here.”
He turned toward the stairs then paused. “Phaedra. Come with me. The Prima Consul may need you.”
“I’m coming, too,” Cleo exclaimed, a worried note in her voice.
As he reached the second floor and strode down the hall, Atia stirred in his arms. He turned his head slightly to look at her. Although she was still pale, her expression had regained that regal look that said she was the one in charge.
“I’m quite capable of walking, Lysander.” The command in her voice was one he knew better than to ignore. He stopped just short of her door and immediately set the Prima Consul on her feet.
“Damn it, Mother. Why do you have to be so stubborn? You just passed out.” The irritation in Cleo’s voice layered the worry that ran deeper.
“I’m feeling much better,” Atia said quietly as she slowly walked the last few steps to her room. “But I do think I’ll lie down.”
“I’ll come with you to make sure you don’t pass out again. We don’t need a martyr on our hands.” Cleo sent him a look of angry disgust. “We’ve already got enough of those in here as it is.”
Atia didn’t object to Cleo’s gentle bullying. Instead, she gave her daughter a nod of acquiescence. The two women entered Atia’s room, but the Prima Consul stopped Cleo from closing the door. Her expression unyielding, she looked directly at him.
“You are to let Phaedra see to your wounds.”
“I have a scratch on my arm, nothing more.”
“A scratch that would require stitches if a healer was unavailable.” The Prima Consul arched her eyebrow in an autocratic manner. “Phaedra.”
“I’ll see to his injuries,” Phaedra said quietly, a determined look on her face.
As Atia slowly closed her door, he caught the sly gleam in the woman’s eyes. Merda, the woman was interfering where she shouldn’t. Furious, he turned his head and saw Phaedra studying him with an amused expression on her beautiful features.
“Let’s get this over with,” he growled.
“My pleasure.” The sultry note in her voice tightened every muscle in his body. “It would be best to do this in your room so you can rest afterward.”
Christus, they’d already been down this road earlier. He didn’t need a repeat. The memory of holding her in his arms knotted his muscles with tension. With a growl of frustration, he sent her an abrupt nod then headed toward the staircase and up to the third floor. His place was definitely better than hers. At least he could retreat to his bedroom and lock the
door behind him.
When he entered his small apartment, he headed straight for the couch. At least here, the torment of having her so close would be a little less painful. He wasn’t sure he could keep her from seeing deep beneath the surface when it came to his thoughts. But he needed every ounce of concentration he had to hide the monster inside him. It was going to be bad enough watching her take on the pain of his injury.
The idea of her sensing the monster inside him shot a bolt of panic through him. Deus, maybe he should just let her see him for what he was. He crushed the thought with one blow. No, he refused to cause her any pain. He knew how much she hated the Praetorians for what they’d done to her parents. He’d find a way to hide his secret from her. The thought of being the catalyst for bringing her past to the surface—hurting her—was the last thing he wanted.
The scent of her filled his senses as she brushed past him. Sweet. Oh so sweet. Like a tangy fruit, fresh and ripe for the picking. He suppressed a groan as she sank down onto the sofa beside him. Il Christi omnipotentia, he didn’t think he could do this. He could only hope he’d buried his secret deep enough. Touching her would be like entering the Elysium Fields one more time, all the while knowing that in mere seconds someone would throw him back into hell. She turned toward him, and he knew it was too late.
Chapter 12
ATIA stared at her daughter standing at the foot of her bed. Cleo’s expression wavered between worry and irritation. She suppressed a sigh. It was understandable that Cleo would be confused by her behavior.
“Do stop acting like I’m on the verge of death, cara. I fainted.”
“Something you’ve never done before in your life, Mother.”
“I’m simply feeling the stress of the search. I know we’re close to finding the artifact, but I’m afraid the Praetorians aren’t far behind us.”
“I could maybe buy that story, if it wasn’t for the fact that you fainted. Stress didn’t have a fucking thing to do with your swooning.” Cleo emphasized the word “swooning” in a somewhat sarcastic fashion. “That message scared the piss out of you.”
“Must you use such language?”
“If memory serves, not more than fifteen minutes ago, you said fotte.”
“Touche,” she muttered with irritation at having her transgression thrown back in her face.
“So who’s Marcus, and who’s the boy?”
Cleo folded her arms across her chest and eyed Atia closely. How like her father she was—strong, determined, and so sure of herself. Although they were often at
odds with one another, it did nothing to dampen the love she felt for Cleo. She was proud of her daughter. Atia waved her hand in denial and shrugged, her brain working fast to form a plausible answer.